Neither Here Nor There
by A Killer Joke
Summary: A collection of asscreed drabbles and short stories. May include various pairings, or none at all.
1. Chapter 1

(Some of these will be short drabbles, whereas others will be longer while still not quite fitting my personal requirements to be labeled as full-fledged fics. I suppose you could think of them as ficlets or short stories, idk. Either way, I hope some of you find at least a bit of entertainment in them.

Critique and advice is lovely, by the way. I always like to improve my writing, even in small tidbits like these.)

* * *

After he married his wife, Altaïr had made a promise to himself. He wanted no secrets in their relationship, and made an effort to share everything with her, whether it was embarrassing or damning or even simply trivial, it didn't matter. He told her of everything.

Except for one thing. The Apple.

He kept the artifact hidden away from nearly everyone, of course - but for the most part the Brotherhood was unaware that he had been studying the Piece of Eden as of late. Being one of the few men he could wholeheartedly trust, Malik knew, and made his displeasure obvious on a routine basis - Altaïr had no doubt his wife would share the one-armed Dai's sentiments, and her chastisement would be just as sharp, if not sharper.

So when he went to his study one evening and found Maria rifling through the journal at his desk, he rushed in the room, hoping to get it out of her grasp before she discovered too much.

But when she looked up at him, it wasn't with the expression of scorn he'd been expecting; instead, a small smile played at her mouth (such an uncommon sight) and her steely gray eyes shone with amusement. Altaïr schooled his face into his typical neutral mask, but Maria had noticed his initial bewilderment, of course.

"Why, you are quite adept at hiding things, aren't you?" she asked, watching him with narrowed eyes. She didn't take her hands off the journal. "I suppose I should have expected no less when marrying an assassin."

Altaïr wasn't quite sure what to make of her words - did she find his notes on the Apple? No, that didn't explain her reaction. "I don't know what you mean," he said slowly, taking a careful step closer, his amber eyes glancing to the desk briefly before settling back on Maria. "What have I been hiding?"

Maria scoffed, then picked up the journal, opening it and turning her back on Altaïr. He tried to step around her to see, but she kept shifting just so, keeping the book out of his sight. Childish tactics were not beneath her. "Your artistic streak," she explained, flipping through a few pages, then made a pleased sort of hum. "I had no idea a man of your bloody profession would be capable of such talent. I thought you too brutish, simple-minded."

Not even acknowledging the insults (he long ago learned to ignore them, between Malik's jibes and Maria's fondness for name-calling), Altaïr couldn't help but let out his breath in a relieved sigh. She only found his sketches. If he believed in any gods, he likely would have thanked them.

"You are insufferably nosy, has anyone ever told you that?" he complained irritably, reaching around her in an attempt to snatch the journal from her grasp, but she skirted away expertly. Damn the woman. "That is _mine_, you devilish imp."

"Oh, I know it's yours. What of it?" She laughed again, but stopped slinking away from him, thin fingers lightly tracing over the lines on a page. Her lips quirked up into another rare smile, this time not one of mockery, and Altaïr knew which sketch she was admiring even before she spoke. "Do you really see me like this? Surely I am not so... beautiful."

Altaïr took his journal from her, looking at the page to see the portrait he had drawn of Maria, donned in Templar armor with her mouth twisted in a barely-visible smirk, her eyes determined and sharp, with the last finishing touch being an intricate border framing the image. It felt like he had sketched it centuries ago, but she looked no less stunning now as she did then. "Yes," he said simply, shutting the leather-bound journal. "In my eyes, you will never be anything short of beautiful."

* * *

(Initially I had wanted Malik to be the one to steal Altaïr's sketches, and find that there were actually some of him, with much mockery and snark from Malik and Altaïr being sheepish for a change, but I'unno. I was compelled to write Maria for the first time instead. Maybe I'll do the other idea later. Maybe not. :V)


	2. Chapter 2

Whenever Ezio's eyes found his target, he would leap with confidence and grace, striking with calculated force, the movement of his blades as sure and swift as a hawk when it found its prey.

But there was no pride in his work, no satisfaction, only vengeance, bitter and cold and laced with yearning. Yearning for his old life, for the times before; when he did not know what it was like to have everything in his world ruthlessly stolen away, when he did not know how it felt to plunge a blade into another man's throat, when he did not have an ever-present gap in his heart from which his brothers and father had been torn. It was a hole that he had no way of knowing how to fill, and so with icy determination he sought to reproduce it in every single man involved in the conspiracy against his family by tearing the life from them with his very own hands.

Perhaps killing their families as they had killed his would be the best method - but Ezio was not the type to stoop to such cowardly levels, and even if he were, these men were selfish, greedy, caring only for their own hide. He had little doubt that they would be largely untroubled if their families were to because of their actions. The only way to ruin such men would be to take their lives, the one thing they valued the most. And so he hunted them down.

They had imagined the Auditores gone from this world, beaten and unfairly broken - and yet they were wrong. Ezio remained, still breathing and living and strong, and in their failure, they created the very weapon that would be their own bloody undoing.

One by one, he found each man, and eliminated them with well-trained ease. His uncle Mario had taught him to grace their souls with such words as _requiescat in pace_, and yet every time he did so, he could not help but feel troubled at how he found no peace or solace himself.

There were always someone else to kill, another name appearing to delay him from his true goal, the main conspirator, the Spaniard. But what was there to come after he removed these men, after he blotted out the existence of Rodrigo Borgia? What was there to be gained? A bittersweet revenge, a pyrrhic victory at best - nothing that could ever make things as they once were.

And finally, in the end, he would be left a haunted man, with nothing but unanswerable questions and the blood of slain enemies on his hands.

* * *

(YEAH SO I CRANKED THE RIDICULOUS ANGST UP TO 11.  
EZIO IS ALWAYS TOO JOVIAL AND HAPPY FOR MY LIKING. I DEMAND MORE B'AWWWW.)


	3. Chapter 3

This was getting ridiculous.

Malik stared across the dimly lit bureau at the assassin dozing in the next room, his torso swathed in bandages, their stark whiteness standing out in contrast against his tanned skin. This wasn't the first time he had dropped by in need of medical attention after an assassination, beaten, bruised and bloody, and Malik doubted it would be the last.

Altaïr threw himself into his missions with such sincere, single-minded determination, so much so that it was typical for him to not even realize the extent of the injuries he had sustained until after the adrenaline from battle had faded. In a way, Malik thought it amusing - Altaïr was so focused on his path to redemption that he could likely get himself killed before noticing that anything was amiss, but on the other hand, Malik found it troubling. Not so long ago, he'd been all but begging Al Mualim to drive a dagger through Altaïr's heart as atonement for Kadar's death, but now, he couldn't help but wonder... what would be gained if Altaïr were to die?

The one-armed Dai shook his head, frowning to himself and turning around before he could see one amber eye sliding open, watching his back as he departed into the other room.

In the morning, the two spoke little over breakfast, as was their custom. Malik checked over Altaïr's wounds, then gave him permission to return to duty. As Malik busied himself with tending to his maps, the assassin wasted no time in pulling on his white robes, offering the other man a simple thank-you before making to leave.

But in that split second it took Altaïr to turn around, Malik couldn't help but recall the thoughts that troubled his mind the night before. "Altaïr," he called, and the assassin stopped in his tracks.

"Yes?" Altaïr responded reluctantly, shifting to glance over at Malik. He frowned slightly, but the expression was hidden by his white cowl, pulled low over his face.

"Before you go..." Malik began, then trailed off, chastising himself for not thinking this through more. It was stupid. He shook his head before continuing. "Keep safe. It would not hurt to take care of yourself every now and then."

That didn't seem to be what Altaïr had been expecting, if the incredulous scoff was anything to go by. "I always take care of myself," he said indignantly, turning to leave again, but the long-suffering sigh from behind the desk made him pause.

"No, you do not." Malik didn't bother looking up from the maps scattered across the surface of his desk, choosing to scowl at ink and parchment rather than Altaïr's face. He figured the assassin wouldn't mind; he likely knew the sharp bite of Malik's glare far too well by now. "You only see to it that the mission is completed by any means possible, and this tendency of yours has a way of causing trouble."

Altaïr grimaced wordlessly at the reminder, knowing all too well what that trouble entailed, his eyes trailing of their own volition to the Dai and stopping at the place where his left arm ought to be. Malik could feel his heavy gaze and, without looking up, waved his remaining hand in a dismissive gesture before continuing on. "Yes, yes, we both know you have caused other people pain in your bullheaded determination, but have you ever noticed how often you have gotten _yourself_ injured, Altaïr?"

The assassin had apparently given up on leaving and was well into the bureau by now, only a few steps away from the desk. Malik figured his silence meant he was thinking over the words, weighing them in his mind. Really, he didn't need to spell it out to the other man - how often indeed did he come to the one-armed Dai in need of aid, to remove an arrow, to stitch a nasty gash from a sword, to set broken bones from a slippery fall?

Eventually, Altaïr shrugged wordlessly by way of response, and Malik took it to be the best sign of admittance he could get out of the relentlessly stubborn man. He finally abandoned his mapping and offered the assassin a rare smile, reaching over the desk to place a hand on his shoulder briefly. "Remember, Altaïr, while I once wanted nothing more than to have seen you dead, that time has passed. Now, instead, you would let too many people down if you were to fall."

Shockingly, Altaïr returned the smile, grasping Malik's hand on his shoulder before placing it back to its previous spot the desk. "As you wish, brother."

And with that, he turned and slunk out of the bureau, leaving Malik surprised, but not unpleasantly so.


End file.
